A Pair of Socks
by the dogtor is in
Summary: Goku and Piccolo try their inept hands at behind-the-scenes matchmaking for Bulma and Vegeta in order to ensure the birth of a certain warrior from the future. Meanwhile, Bulma begins to suspect someone is trying to kill her.
1. Chapter 1

A Pair of Socks

* * *

Goku and Piccolo try their inept hands at behind-the-scenes matchmaking for Bulma and Vegeta in order to ensure the birth of a certain warrior from the future. Meanwhile, Bulma begins to suspect someone is trying to kill her.

* * *

Bulma clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle the escape of an involuntary squeak. She stood rooted to the spot, her breath rattling in harsh, short gasps against the barrier of her fingers as she strained her ears to hear anything beyond the hammering of her own heart. She remained frozen for nearly a full minute before any signals from her higher brain managed to pierce the senseless howling of her more primordial instincts. These reminded her with devastating rationality that if she really was under some imminent threat, standing in full view in the middle of the open lawn was definitely a tactical error.

Risking a quick glance around, she roused her misfiring nervous system and scuttled back into the shadows in what she prided herself was an unobtrusive fashion. She reached out and rested her hand against the door to the laboratory she had exited not long before. She didn't unlock it just yet, but the mere promise of escape allowed her to pause and assess the situation logically.

What was the probability, she wondered to herself, that she might have travelled billions of miles through space and survived a homicidal interstellar maniac, assorted minions, and an exploding planet, only to die in her own backyard? Infinitesimal, surely. There was nowhere she felt safer than at the Capsule Corporation compound, where both the newest prototypes and their creators were protected by a myriad of security measures. Any intruder was almost guaranteed a swift and inventive form of death and dismemberment—and not necessarily in that order. So in the absence of blaring alarms and firing lasers, the only plausible explanation was that her senses were deceiving her.

She brought a hand up to swipe hastily at her bleary eyes. It was somewhere past two in the morning, and she had been asleep at her desk no more than a quarter hour before. She had woken, disoriented and alone, to the eerie hum of idling machinery in a half dozen darkened and empty laboratories. It was a depressingly familiar scenario since she had once again found herself single and staring at the other side of thirty. Not wanting to linger on her life choices, she had taken only the time necessary to peel her face away from the stack of papers to which it had adhered and snatch up her keycard—upending an untouched sandwich on a paper plate in the process—before lurching groggily outside into the fickle starlight.

Given this, it was easy to accept that what she had thought she had seen was no more than a dream. The fleeting glimpse of a spectral figure disappearing into the shrubbery only a creation of her drowsy brain. The faintest whisper of a boot against gravel just an auditory hallucination conjured by the conspiracy of a burgeoning headache and an empty stomach.

Like ninety percent of things in her life, this could all be satisfactorily explained and categorized into a narrative that fit within the predictable laws of nature. She took a steadying breath, but her heart rate refused to slow.

There was, however, still that irksome ten percent, which was populated by things like magical Dragon Balls and body-swapping aliens. It was that ten percent that kept her clinging to the door, unwilling to go backwards or forwards. Waiting. Waiting for an echo in the dark. Waiting for a ghostly flicker on the edge of her vision. Waiting for the impossible and the impossibly terrifying to find her.

A few more minutes passed in agonizing suspense before she snapped herself suddenly upright, letting out a muffled curse. _Pull it together, Bulma. You are a beautiful, brilliant, confident, grown-ass woman, and you can walk across your own yard at night. _She assessed the empty expanse between her and the house. It wasn't far at all. She glanced to the side, catching sight of the crimson glow from the gravity chamber. But Vegeta was closer…

Her feet began moving before she was conscious of making a decision. She took the last vestiges of her fear and fed them to the small flame of irritation burning under her rib cage, kindling a new emotion. She knew better than to show the Saiyan prince anything resembling weakness.

In fact, she had developed a certain expertise in manipulating her resident alien over the past year and more. She had begun by thinking of him a bit like a stray cat hanging around the compound, showing up for meals and otherwise assiduously evading human contact. From there, she had successfully built an unlikely type of rapport between them. This largely consisted of her yelling at him not to do things, and him ignoring her while strutting regally around her home. So, almost exactly like having a cat.

The real trick had been learning never to show him all her cards, but only to reveal enough of her plans to make him suspicious of her. A suspicious Vegeta would drop almost anything to stalk and study her. While he puzzled over her ulterior motives and plotted her ultimate downfall, she often managed to convince him to do two or three constructive things in a row. Like shower and change his clothes.

Jabbing at the button that turned on the video screen inside the gravity chamber, she drew a deep breath before launching into a well-rehearsed tirade. "R-E-S-T. Rest, Vegeta. Your body needs it, even if your brain is too atrophied to realize it. You obviously can't become a Super Saiyan just by beating yourself half to death, or you would _be _one already. All you're doing is ensuring yourself an early grave on a backwater planet, your name and all your people an insignificant little blip on the universal radar.

"And I wouldn't give a damn about your dumb legend, except _my _life and _my _planet just might depend on your survival. _Look_ at me, Vegeta. I am too lovely and talented—" There was a sharp, annoyed exhale of breath from within, and the light softened inside as the simulator was shut down. They both recognized the inevitable crescendo of her diatribe, and she plowed ahead without pausing, "—to die because you are an egotistical, sociopathic, musclebound, dim-witted, pint-sized, son of a bit—"

The door opened and Vegeta loomed with a practiced air. Although the negligible difference in their heights made it easy to stare him down, she found herself focusing on his bare chest, covered in sweat and half a dozen shallow cuts dripping blood. He crossed his arms and muscles rippled. She felt a little light-headed, but she attributed that sensibly to her plummeting blood sugar.

He was silent long enough that she began to worry she may have laid it on too thick this time, and a small flicker of relief flashed through her when he spoke. "I grow weary of explaining the many ways in which Saiyan physiology eclipses your weak human body. I will rest when I require it."

"I've patched you up enough times to develop some familiarity with your _physiology_, and that, frankly, is bullshit."

Even in the unreliable light squeezing around him through the door frame she could still trace the fierce blush that crept down his chest. If it was possible, his tone became even more frigid. "If we are speaking frankly, I will remind you that not only does your long term survival depend upon you leaving me in peace to train, but your short term survival does as well."

_Good._ Death threats. Things were progressing just as expected. "It's exactly your short-sightedness that's the problem. Putting aside for a moment that your main reason for sticking around is to beat one of my oldest friends into a bloody pulp, you won't even last until the androids at this pace. It's a marathon, not a sprint, Vegeta. And this is your friendly reminder that you can't prove you're better than anyone, let alone Goku, if you're dead."

"Kakarot—" he sputtered. One of his eyebrows twitched as he fought down his knee-jerk reaction at the mere mention of the other Saiyan. His features sharpened, and he leaned in menacingly. "How touching that you were so concerned about my health that you came all this way in the middle of the night just to insult my honor. Your benevolence is truly limitless."

She heard the note of wariness in his voice and knew her victory was at hand. Still, her heart was drumming in her chest like a small rodent caught in the claws of some slavering beast. Going toe-to-toe with a man who had destroyed entire planets was no walk through the park.

"Yes, well, I don't see anyone else around—"

In the space of a blink, his hand gripped her chin with enough force to draw a gasp from her and his voice growled in her ear, "There is ink on your face, woman."

Her often ignored sense of self-preservation began clamoring for attention. _Abort, repeat, abort mission. _

She settled for stepping back with as much easy confidence as she could muster. The sting of his rough handling lingered and her cheeks were flushed with chagrin, but she was proud of her casual tone. "One rule, Vegeta." She flourished an admonitory finger at him. "No touching the goods."

He grunted as he crossed his arms again, dismissing her interjection with a jerk of his chin as he worked through the puzzle before him. "So you have been working late in your laboratory. And for some reason you decided to berate me for doing the same. Why? Is there not something frivolous you would rather be doing?"

She winced internally, but managed a dispassionate shrug. "So maybe we're both highly driven individuals. Maybe we have more in common than you might think. Which qualifies me to let you know when you're being unreasonable."

The silence that met her comment was a censure in its own right. She rolled her eyes. "Look, let me simplify it for you. I'm tired and hungry. I need to know, do you want to eat with me? Or eat...adjacent to me? In the same room. Not saying anything to each other. Possibly glaring malevolently." She glanced quickly up at him, meeting a pair of forbidding dark eyes. "Oh good, you've already started. Yes, exactly like that." She half turned, firing a challenge over her shoulder. "Well, come along, your highness."

She marched ahead towards the house. Vegeta followed. She did not look back.

—

Miles away from West City, Piccolo came to rest on a rocky outcropping. Clenching his fists, he silently berated himself for his foolishness. He had been so focused on suppressing his ki and avoiding detection that he had entirely forgotten to account for a human's feeble night vision. White, billowing cloaks were apparently a poor choice for nocturnal reconnaissance missions.

He allowed himself a few more moments of self-recrimination, then thoroughly ground the emotion down in order to focus on more pressing concerns.

The timeline was altering.

True, he had no exact birthdate to work with, but the window of time in which a boy could be born some two years after the arrival of a warrior from the future was rapidly narrowing. Even by his most generous calculations, Bulma should be carrying a half-Saiyan child by now.

He had feared this possibility ever since he first overheard the true origin of Trunks. That even though the boy had sworn Goku to secrecy, simply by travelling into the past Trunks had already altered events in any number of small, incalculable ways and inadvertently prevented his own birth. Perhaps Vegeta became too preoccupied with training for the androids' arrival. Perhaps Bulma became consumed with inventing a system for mass dispersal of the cure for the virus. Perhaps any number of strange permutations of events cooperated to keep the unlikely pair apart.

Regardless of the mechanism, they were racing headlong towards an unknown deadline days or maybe weeks in the future, after which Trunks' existence would be entirely erased. From there, Piccolo could only surmise that the timeline would seek to self-correct by collapsing the two divergent realities into one. Then there would be no memory of a messenger from an apocalyptic future, no medicine to save Goku, and no hope left for the Earth.

Until now he had been content to monitor how events were progressing, feeling a proper amount of reticence over further disrupting an already uncertain outcome. However, the time for restraint had obviously passed. Maybe the universe was counting on him to take a more active role in securing the Earth's future after all, like a green-skinned deus ex machina waiting in the wings.

But first, he needed to consult an expert on human mating rituals. Unfortunately, all he had was Goku.

—

Goku's eyes were wide and slightly crossed as Piccolo attempted to simplify the concept of a time travel paradox for the fifth or sixth time. "So you see, if Trunks is never born, he can't come back in time to warn us about the androids. It will be as if none of the events since his arrival had happened, and you will die of the heart virus."

Goku opened his mouth. Closed it. Traced with a forefinger the diagram that Piccolo had etched in the dirt to illustrate his theory. Finally he said, "And then all this training will be for nothing. All the progress we've made...gone."

Not exactly the first response Piccolo expected when discussing one's certain death, but at least his unlikely ally was beginning to show some understanding.

Goku rubbed unconsciously at the back of his neck. "But how can you be sure? About—about Vegeta and Bulma, I mean. That Bulma's not—well, you know," he finished, stuttering and blushing his way to a precipitous conclusion. Some firsthand experience in such matters obviously did not equal an easy fluency.

Piccolo squeezed his eyes closed with a pained expression that caused the Saiyan to wonder if he had eaten something that disagreed with him. A heavy sigh escaped him. "I can...smell it."

"Smell…?" Goku allowed the question to dwindle away as his eyes widened once more.

"Yes." The lines of profound affliction bracketing Piccolo's mouth deepened further. The two warriors exchanged a speaking glance, and a solemn pact to never mention this again was silently forged.

After an uncomfortable few moments, Goku recalled another concern pricking at the back of his brain. "But I promised Trunks that I wouldn't say anything to Bulma."

"And we won't," Piccolo assured him firmly. "This will be a strictly secret operation. But for this plan to work I will need your help, Goku." Piccolo lowered himself to the ground, legs crossed, expression concentrated, determination radiating from his being. "Tell me...what do women want?"

—

Bulma slung a pair of goggles across the workbench while her other hand reached up automatically to smooth away the red lines left etched in her face. She set a timer, then swiveled in her chair to inspect the glowing screen of the computer, which was tirelessly transcribing an entire encyclopedia of knowledge in a four-letter alphabet. She was reaching for the keyboard when the phone on her desk rang.

She sent it a quelling glance. There were only a handful of people who possessed the direct number to her office, and even fewer who would actually use it. When the ringing continued unabated, she wheeled herself closer with an irritated huff and snatched up the receiver. She bit out a curt, repressive greeting and waited for her unsuspecting victim to offer up an apology for the disturbance.

Instead there was a brief guttural noise followed by a heavy, unnatural silence. "Hello?" She adjusted the receiver as if that might fix the connection. "Hello?" When no answer came, she replaced the phone but continued staring at it for several moments longer as if it were about to detonate. Her fingers drummed an uneasy rhythm against her desk, but within a minute they moved as if of their own violation to snatch up a nearby pad of paper. By the time the alarm on the workbench sounded, she was busily sketching ideas on an already cramped sheet of notes.

When the phone rang again twenty minutes later, her finger slipped and she ejected the contents of her micropipette over the counter top. Swearing loudly, she tossed the pipette away from her impatiently. But it wasn't anger that made her pulse quicken, and when she actually rose to approach the offending device, she did so cautiously, in a roundabout way, as if ambushing a small, rabid woodland creature.

"Hello?" This time there was the distinct sound of heavy, panicked breathing on the other end. "Who is this? Helloooo!" The breathing went on without pause, and a small shiver of terror lodged at the base of her spine. She slammed the phone down and covered her ears with her hands, her own breath coming in heavy gasps. In her mind's eye she saw again a phantom melting into the bushes.

When the phone rang a third time, she pounced on it. She had barely choked out a syllable when there was a loud crack. Then, all other sound was drowned out by a rushing noise, like what someone would hear in a speeding car with the windows down. After just a fraction of a second, the line went dead.

Bulma stared at the phone in bewilderment. Set it down. Picked it back up. Then dialed a familiar number. It went straight to voicemail.

—

When Yamcha bothered to check his messages, the immediate force of Bulma's temper sent him tumbling out of his chair with a surprised yelp.

_If this is your idea of some kind of sick joke, Yamcha, I will personally murder you. I will break your legs so you can't run away, and then all your fingers, and then I will cut out your tongue. I will feed your kidneys to a dinosaur and I will gouge out your eyes and I will call every single girl in your phone book and I will—_

Yamcha deleted the message before he found out what other grisly fantasies his ex-girlfriend had in mind for him. He deleted her second message as well without ever listening to it, so he never heard the softer, tear-filled plea that followed.

_Yamcha. Yamcha. Please, please pick up. I'm sorry. I'm just so scared. Either—either someone really is going to kill me, or I'm going absolutely crazy. And either way, I need help. I need you. Please._

—

Goku carefully smoothed the deep creases of a small scrap of paper. Years before, Bulma had scribbled down her phone number on it and handed it over with a command that he call her once in awhile. He had thanked her cheerfully and promptly forgotten all about it until yesterday.

But now Piccolo had entrusted him with phase one of their plan: intelligence gathering. Somehow, he would casually reach out to Bulma without raising her suspicions. Somehow, he would gently lead the conversation around to Vegeta to determine how things lay between the pair. Somehow.

He tried not to give the particulars too much thought. He would pull it off in their time of need, or he would die trying. That's what he always did.

Still, his palms were growing slightly damp with sweat. He set the piece of paper down and wiped them against his thighs. He cast a glance at the door, but managed to tamp down the desire to check the hallway just one more time. He knew without getting up that Chi-Chi was in the kitchen, probably humming softly to herself as she cooked, and Gohan was in his room applying himself to his studies. There should be no interruptions from either of those quarters.

He picked up the phone and slowly, repeating each digit to himself, dialed Bulma's number. As it rang and rang, a tangle of half-formed sentences tumbled through his head. None of them seemed right, though, and they only became more disjointed as his sense of dread increased.

Just as he heard the click of a receiver being lifted, the door opened and a horned head was thrust through. "Goku!" The head was soon followed by the impressive bulk of his father-in-law. "Goku, you're home! That must mean my grandson is—Are you okay?"

At the first hint of intrusion, Goku had sprung from his chair, slamming his shin into a wooden nightstand with a force that surprised a grunt from him. He managed to shove the incriminating phone under a pillow before Ox-King had rounded the door, but he was still caught wincing and clutching at his battered limb.

It took some time to reassure Ox-King and dispatch the affable giant in Gohan's direction. Goku waited even further until he was sure the duo was happily engaged in conversation before he dared to pull out the phone and dial again.

He had just heard a slightly apprehensive "Hello?" when Chi-Chi turned the door knob. Without pausing for thought, he dropped and rolled, phone and all, under the bed.

"Goku?" Chi-Chi called, casting a confused and exasperated look around the room. "Oh! That man, he is never around when you need him!" She continued to grumble and slander his character as she made her way around the room, randomly straightening a throw pillow here or picking up a piece of stray laundry there.

In his hiding place, Goku tried to remain as quiet as possible, but his breathing unconsciously grew shorter and more ragged the closer his wife came. After a few minutes of vengeful cleaning, Chi-Chi exited, and he allowed himself to relax. Even still, he was cautious in emerging from his refuge.

Sitting on the bed, he leaned over to fish the phone out. He cradled it in his hand, knowing that this time it would be better to plunge ahead before any further disruptions. He dialed from memory now and it only rang once before the other line picked up.

"Dad!" Gohan called. "Daddy!"

Goku reacted reflexively as panic squeezed his chest in a tight band. He launched the phone straight out the window.

"Daddy!" cried Gohan as he peeked around the door. "Mom wanted to know if you've seen the pho…" He trailed into silence as he took in the halo of broken glass surrounding his father.

"Oh no," Gohan whispered. "We are going to be in so much trouble."

Goku paled.

—

Having successfully terrified an unsuspecting assistant into a blubbering, cowering wretch, Vegeta swallowed the bitter taste of yet another hollow victory and shouldered his way into Bulma's laboratory. Her blue head was bent over her laptop, and there were assorted parts which had presumably once formed a telephone scattered over her desk. Another computer terminal across the lab was blinking an alert message, but both he and it were equally ignored.

He closed the door harder than necessary, and when this failed to elicit a reaction, he tossed the mangled bots he was carrying onto the laboratory bench. Not only did this produce a satisfactory crashing, but it also sent a styrofoam container of ice toppling to the floor, spilling the contents of several small vials.

"Shit, Vegeta!" Bulma was on her feet in an instant. There was a wildness around the edges of her eyes and a shadow of real fear on her face that surprised him. She hadn't looked at him that way since they had been on Namek.

Pressing a hand to her chest to ensure her heart hadn't really leapt out of her throat, Bulma sagged back into her chair. She surveyed the mess on the floor and raked a hand carelessly through her hair. "Why is everyone acting like nucleotides grow on trees?" she grumbled resentfully.

Finding no obvious significance in this remark, it was easily brushed aside. "I have been unable to locate your father. You will need to repair these for me immediately."

"Sorry, out of luck. My dad is away at a conference for a few days. I will get to it as soon as I can." With a careless shrug, she reached over to tap a button which set a machine whirring into a cleaning frenzy across the floor.

"That is unacceptable."

"It's the best I got. I need to finish this," she said, jabbing a finger towards her laptop, "but I can promise to start on the bots as soon as I'm done." Bending once again over her work, she turned her back on him.

He only knew he had clenched his hands into fists by the bite of nails against his palms. He felt that _thing_ again. That feeling like the first few moments in the gravity simulator, when he was pinned into immobility by a seemingly insurmountable force. That was the peculiar kind of helplessness this human woman engendered in him.

After all this time he still had not discovered the secret to coercing her to do his bidding. There was nothing to be gained in intimidating such a frail creature physically. He could not destroy her lab in case some tool necessary to his success might be an unintended casualty. Her parents, too, held a certain value to his ultimate ascendency. And each successive threat he offered her generally made her less likely to comply with his request.

There seemed to be only one avenue open to him, and he would not be reduced to begging. So he stood, proud, unmoving, until Bulma felt the weight of his glare.

She glanced up, her lips slightly parted in an expression that mingled surprise and annoyance. "Since you've got some time on your hands, maybe you could squeeze in a nap or a shower. What about a snack? Have you eaten anything recently?"

He sniffed. "I have already been to the kitchen. There were no offerings available."

"There won't be anything for a few days. My mom went with my dad to the conference. I'm sure she said something to you—Anyway, you'll have to forage a little in the cabinets. Open a few cans. You should be able to find all the ingredients for a sandwich, though…" Her voice died away as she met his decidedly blank look.

She dug around her desk for a moment, came up with a sticky note and pen, then quickly jotted down a brief reminder: _Explain sandwiches to Vegeta._

"Never mind," she continued. "I'll throw something together for us when I'm done here. Or, better yet, I'll order out. But you don't have to sit here waiting on me in the meantime. There must be something, a book you've been meaning to read or...Wait, do you _have _any hobbies besides breaking femurs and eating small children?"

His sneer was a study in haughty disdain. "I stick to things I am good at."

He turned on his heel and began a slow, predatory tour of her lab. He poked and prodded at a few obviously fragile pieces of equipment, but failed to receive any reprimands. Finally, having proven that he would not be dictated to, he slouched down against one corner of the cabinet and proceeded to stare.

He watched as a set of chipped red nails flew across the keyboard. Watched as they selected a screwdriver from among the tools nesting on the desk. Watched as they skillfully and efficiently reconstructed the phone.

He was so consumed with watching that he nearly forgot to be truly observant.

"What are you doing?"

His question startled her into another little jump, as if his previous silence had cloaked his presence from her. "This?" She waved the receiver in her hand. "I'm trying to write a program that will trace all calls coming into the lab."

He nodded. It was a sensible endeavor, but he did not grasp its urgency. However, he judged it better to hold his tongue than risk having his own project's exigency called into question.

They lapsed back into silence as he was once again drawn in by the easy, steady movements of her hands from one task to the next. He was unsure of how much time passed before she spoke.

"What did you do to Eric, by the way?"

"Who?"

"My assistant, Eric. Bright red hair, freckles." She gestured vaguely around her own face as if that might illuminate her description. "Eric. You had to get past him somehow."

Vegeta raised an eyebrow. "I did not kill him, if that is what you are asking."

"Good. That's...reassuring." She bit her lip thoughtfully. "But in the future, I'd prefer you just come straight to me rather than terrifying my employees. I will let them know that my door is always open to you from now on."

This declaration was met with an eloquent grunt. And with time his presence faded into a comfortable shadow in the back of her mind as she worked, like the soft hum of a white noise machine.

"You changed your hair. It is less...poofy."

This time she startled for an entirely different reason. She reached up to touch the ends of her short, straight blue hair. "Yes. I cut it three weeks ago."

They regarded each other for a long moment, but she saw clearly that he had nothing further to add. "Thank you, Vegeta. It would have taken Yamcha at least _four_ weeks to notice."

His expression became thoughtful. "The one with the scar on his face? I have not seen him recently."

"No, you haven't."

That was the last thing either of them said until much later, when Bulma hurled a bot at the alien on her floor and demanded that he get his ass out of her lab or she wouldn't order an extra serving of that noodle dish he liked.


	2. Chapter 2

The inevitable fallout from the broken window resulted in Goku's banishment from his own home, but he waited until well into the next day before he left his son under Piccolo's tutelage. Retreating to Kame House, he found it deserted except for Master Roshi, who was peacefully dozing beneath the kind of magazine he had learned not to look too closely at. This suited his purposes perfectly, since Goku had only come to borrow the phone far away from any possible interference by his loving family.

Time had no further prepared him for the task at hand, however, and whatever plan he had formulated was obliterated the moment Bulma answered the phone.

"I should have known this had something to do with you, you disgusting old pervert." Her voice cracked like a whip, and Goku took an involuntary step backwards. "Listen here, you fu—"

"B-Bulma?" he stuttered.

"_Goku?_" There was an astonished beat. "Goku! You have no idea how happy I am to hear from you!"

"You are?"

"Oh, yes! Everything is a mess, and I've been so worried—"

"Me too!" He jumped in ecstatically at the first sign of an opportunity.

"You have? Why?"

"There's this thing—a para...a para..." He dug for the term, but it remained elusive. He was sure it was a pair of something. _A pair of docks? _No, he didn't remember anything about boats. "A pair of socks! That's it. I just wish Piccolo was here to explain it, but it means you gotta have the one to have the other and..." His stomach dropped like a stone as he realized mid-sentence that in his enthusiasm he had said just about everything that he shouldn't.

Thankfully, Bulma was too preoccupied to follow his rambling discourse. "If this is about your laundry," she interrupted with obvious exasperation, "I'm sure Chi-Chi has it well under control. I have a _real _problem that I need help with."

He breathed a small sigh of relief, steadied himself, and plunged back into the fray. "How can I help?"

"I need protection. Someone has been sneaking around Capsule Corp. At least, I'm _almost_certain someone has been. I thought I saw something the other night, and I've felt more than once that someone was watching me. And now there are these awful phone calls, but the person just keeps hanging up. I know it sounds like I'm overreacting, but I'm so worried that this is just going to get worse. They can already get into my home, so what's to stop them from hurting me?

"I thought maybe if you were to stay with me for a few weeks. You can bring Chi-Chi and Gohan. Even Piccolo if you really want. Just until I figure out what is going on."

Goku quickly envisioned several scenarios, all of which ended in his untimely death—either by succumbing to the heart virus after his unsuccessful attempts at correcting the timeline, or by succumbing to Vegeta smothering him with a pillow in his sleep. "Uh, I don't think that would be such a great idea. Have you asked Yamcha?"

Again, he spoke without thinking. Again, he was saved from his misstep by Bulma herself. "If you can get him to return your calls, you can tell him that he is the last man on earth that I would ever ask for help."

Suddenly, Goku saw his opening and delivered the blow with as much finesse as he could muster. "Well, have you asked Vegeta? It would certainly be convenient, seeing as he's already living there."

"I would rather die."

A deflection. The Saiyan floundered but came back swinging. "Come on, he isn't _all _bad."

"No, he isn't," she agreed, "which makes it so much worse when he does terrible things."

He shook his head, unable to unravel her logic. "I still think he's your best option."

Bulma gave an irritated huff, and he could almost hear her throwing up her hands through the phone. "_Fine_," she snapped. "I will take care of it myself. I'll just...build a bigger laser, or something."

"I'm sure you'll think of something."

He sensed the futility of his effort and quickly made his goodbyes. There may have been no path forward here, but that did not mean he was out of options. It only meant that it was time to call in the reinforcements and roll out phase two.

—

A warm, playful breeze wafted down the valley, urging legions of wildflowers to bow their heads in deference and plucking mischievously at the edges of Piccolo's cloak as he knelt to contemplate a rose.

_Appealing pale pink petals...reasonable symmetry...few visible blemishes...inoffensive aroma…_

"This one too?" he asked.

Stooping to peer over his shoulder, Goku spent a moment in studying the flower before nodding his affirmation. Piccolo reached out and pulled the rose up by the roots, then turned to add it to the overflowing collection nestled in the crook of Goku's elbow.

"That should be enough." The Saiyan shifted his burden with an appraising glance.

Piccolo dipped his head solemnly and reached into the folds of his gi to extract a length of ribbon and a small note. He tied the stems with their dangling network of roots neatly together before affixing the card prominently.

A small frown knit Goku's brow as he watched this. "You're sure about the note? It's really necessary?"

"Yes." A blush darkened his green companion's complexion. "I have to admit, I was skeptical when you first told me about this...bouquet thing. Presenting a potential mate with the decapitated remains of a living organism only to watch them slowly wither and die? It seemed a poor metaphor for any relationship." If possible, his blush deepened. "So I asked Gohan. He agreed with you. He said he saw it on a television show once, and the man placed a note just like this for the woman to find."

"And you're sure that it has to say, 'From your secret admirer'?"

"Yes. That is what Gohan said."

Goku shrugged, his expression lightening. "Well, okay then. Gohan is a smart kid, after all."

He touched a finger to his forehead and, using instant transmission, he was gone and back again before anyone was the wiser.

—

Bulma stumbled blindly into her room under the cover of darkness. Hopping awkwardly on one foot, she managed to wedge a shoe off, then she pulled a complicated maneuver that sent its mate flying into the opposite corner. She navigated the last three steps without tripping over any unexpected obstacles and hit the edge of the mattress with a sigh of relief.

She had spent more hours than she cared to admit reconfiguring the Capsule Corp security system. Now, the small of her back ached, one of her fingers was blistered, her brain was mush, and all she wanted in the world was to collapse into a minor coma in her own bed. She fell bonelessly into a tangle of sheets, grabbed a corner of blanket, and rolled.

Rolled right into _something_.

Her strange bedfellow stroked her face lightly with fingers that were both soft and waxy at once, while she felt a sharp pricking along her bicep. Her questing hand drew back reflexively, coated in something thick and slightly damp that clung to her fingers like coagulated blood.

She screamed and reared up, overbalanced, and hit the floorboards shoulders first. The pain didn't have time to penetrate her panicked brain, however, as she flailed around indiscriminately for a weapon or a light. She only succeeded in knocking over the bedside table, but as luck would have it, the lamp survived the resulting crash unbroken. She scooped it up, fumbled for the switch, then held it out in front of her as she rose on trembling legs to confront the horror in her bed.

Whatever she was expecting, it wasn't the bruised spray of flower petals littering her pillows in shades of pink and red and purple. Their stalks were a wild tangle which glinted with the hint of thorns, bound together with a shockingly crimson bow. Below that, the labyrinth of their roots smeared dark mud across her white sheets like a mortal wound. And atop it all rested a small cream slip of paper.

She couldn't suppress the tremor in her fingers as she snatched up the card. She flipped it over quickly, as if prolonged contact might burn her, and read the words in an unfamiliar scrawl: _From your secret admirer._She glanced back at the sinister bouquet lying in her most private sanctuary and felt the ominous threat encompassed in those words.

In the awful silence she could almost hear the _zing _of a neuron firing as she made a snap decision.

And just as simply as that, a mantle of unnatural calm settled around her. She bent to right the overturned table, then replaced the lamp. She walked to the window and glanced out, observing dispassionately that the gravity simulator was unoccupied. She turned and made her way out into the hallway, passing by several doors before opening the last one. Inside, a Saiyan prince sat up in his bed and regarded her cynically.

"Someone is going to try to kill me."

Vegeta, who had woken every day since the age of five with the expectation that someone would try to kill him, was unmoved by this bold declaration. "And?"

"I want to hire you as my bodyguard, or whatever."

He didn't even make a show of considering the proposal. "No."

"I can pay you, anything you want."

"Your money is immaterial to me. I have everything I require."

She gave her head an impatient toss. "It may be news to you, but everything you have in fact belongs to _me_. I can dismantle all your training gear and toss you out on your ass without food or clothing. Maybe then you would appreciate the generous offer I've presented you with."

"I can murder your family and destroy this worthless planet once and for all." As little as he had found she responded to threats, he reacted to them even less well.

They blinked at each other, having reached a stalemate.

After a tense few seconds, Bulma shook out her shoulders and deliberately relaxed her imperious pose. As usual, it was incumbent upon her to offer the olive branch. "I've been working on a new prototype for your armor. One with a forty percent higher strength-to-weight ratio. Lighter, more durable. And surprisingly easy to remove blood stains from. I can make you a half dozen suits in every shade of navy blue you could possibly dream of."

A slow, calculating look. "Perhaps an exchange could be negotiated." He held up a finger for emphasis. "With the understanding that this is a temporary arrangement. I am a warrior of royal blood, not some belligerent peasant with a sword for hire."

Having achieved her ultimate goal, she had to bite back several peevish retorts that rose to her lips. "Understood. Give me one week. Starting now. Get up and come with me."

"What?"

Even with her best efforts, she couldn't quite repress an eye roll. "Someone just broke into my house and vandalized my bedroom. There's no way I'm sleeping tonight, so neither are you, buddy."

That captured his attention. He threw back the sheets and came to his feet in a fluid motion. "Show me."

It turned out to be more complicated than that, however. First she had to explain the significance of the chilling object in her bed.

"This is what that atrocious caterwauling was about?" he asked incredulously. "A handful of dead plants?"

So she lectured him on the meaning behind the giving of flowers, occasions and Earth holidays during which such things were typically exchanged, and societal norms governing composition and appearance. Then she showed him the card.

He turned it between his fingers as he read the words aloud. The look of perplexity on his face only grew. "And all of this is meant to be..._romantic_?" He fumbled over the last word, making it clear he was speaking a foreign language. "A few weeds and some meaningless drivel?"

She sighed and rubbed a weary hand over her face, realizing she had failed entirely in enlightening him. "Well, yes. Under the right circumstances. But this makes a deliberate mockery of all that. It's obviously meant to be a threat or a warning of some kind."

He gave a little nod at that. Romance was a foreign concept, but intimidation was something he was fluent in. He dropped the card and began a meticulous circuit of the room. He checked the balcony doors and found them still locked. He investigated the bathroom, inspected the closet, and knelt to peer under the bed itself.

After completing his inventory, he returned to where she stood. "There is no sign that anyone forced their way in, but it is impossible to tell if anything else is amiss in this utter disaster in which you live."

Vegeta's commentary on her organizational skills was low on her list of concerns at the moment, so she refused to rise to the bait. "Whoever did this was in and out without even setting off the motion sensors. I just finished the thermal imaging system, but I was waiting until tomorrow to give it a trial run-through." She shuddered. "Well, lesson learned, I guess. In the morning I will be better prepared, but right now I don't want to spend another minute in here."

She turned with a wordless gesture and was a little surprised to see he followed without protest. She led him downstairs to the living room and began gathering up the obscene number of remotes required to operate the single, oversized screen.

"We're going to liquefy a few brain cells via some good, old-fashioned radio waves," she explained despite the fact that he had neither asked nor betrayed the slightest hint of interest.

"You mean television," he said, settling at the farthest possible end of the couch.

"Right. But nothing too violent. No horror films or slasher flicks. I don't think my nerves can take it."

"What about one of those nature documentaries? I have watched them on occasion with your father and found them educational."

She pictured some sleek jaguar ripping out the throat of an awkwardly adorable tapir and grimaced. "Let's stick to something with absolutely no grounding in reality: the romantic comedy."

To his credit, Vegeta lasted a full eighty-seven minutes in silence, looking a bit like a man attending his own funeral, before his will broke.

"Why did she—"

"Shhh."

"But how could—"

"Shhh! This is the best part. He is just about to realize that blonde bitch has been lying to him this whole time. He'll rush to Lucy's apartment to apologize, but all her stuff is already gone. And then her roommate will make some offhand comment, and he'll know that she must be at the bridge where her umbrella broke the first time they met—"

"You have seen this one before?"

"No, but it's so _obvious_."

He frowned at her with more concentration than this piece of cinematic froth warranted. "It is impossible that you simply guessed all that. Either you are lying, or this is some obscure Earth tradition. Is there some cultural significance attached to bridges? Maybe some form of ritual suicide?"

She groaned and lobbed a throw pillow across the couch at him. It was effortlessly deflected. "What movie have you been watching, Vegeta? Don't you remember during their date at the museum, she said—"

He pulled her up short with a brusque gesture. "Date?"

"Yeah, date. You do know what a date is, don't you?"

"I am familiar with your solar calendar, if that is what you are asking."

"No, no. A _date_. It's when two people go out to dinner or a theater or something and, well, just talk about themselves and decide whether or not they're compatible. Like a form of courtship."

He snorted. "An absurd exercise. How could you possibly assess your partner's power level under such conditions?"

"O-kay," she drawled between spurts of laughter. "So maybe you're working with a bit of a handicap here. How about you tell me about your customs, and I'll fill you in on the Earth things you might not know. Like, how would you go about wooing some Saiyan hottie?"

"Typically, such things began by presenting your intended with the severed right hand of your enemy. Although a tentacle would be acceptable in certain circumstances."

Without realizing it, she had crossed half the distance of the couch and now knelt on the center cushion, her arms wrapped around another pillow as she leaned in curiously. "And then what?"

His eyebrows drew together in a tight furrow as the corners of his mouth turned down. After a few seconds, he shook his head. "I was a child when my planet was destroyed. Maybe I missed some of the finer points."

"Nothing else?" She absently hooked a strand of hair behind her ear. "What about later when you were marauding around space? Any instincts kick in, or any words of wisdom from Nappa or Raditz?"

He shrugged indifferently. "Life under Frieza did not leave much time for...fraternization."

In the quiet dark between them some missing piece of a puzzle materialized. She ran a mental thumb over its edges as she examined his face in the sharp angles of shifting light reflected from the TV, as if seeing it for the first time. _Vegeta, prince of a lost planet, heir to a dead man, last of his name, and almost certainly a virgin_. Maybe it was only a small piece of a convoluted whole, maybe it wasn't even an important piece of the picture, but it was a thread of loneliness running through that was entirely unexpected.

She flopped back against the couch and grabbed a remote. She would not pity him because that would be a worthless exercise, and she could not sympathize with him because she only understood about five percent of the things he had done and seen before he came to Earth, but the tight knot of feelings that surrounded the thought of him _softened _somehow.

"I guess that just leaves us more time for your crash course in embarrassing things humans do to attract mates. I know the perfect movie to play next. It has a prince in it, so maybe you can relate."

"Are you going to tell me how this one ends too?"

She looked sharply at him, wondering if he had just made an attempt at humor, and caught something wry in his expression that made her smile. "Would you mind if I did?"

One corner of his lips lifted just the tiniest fraction, an expression usually reserved for gloating over the pleas of his enemies for mercy. "Let me assure you, _nothing _can lessen my enthusiasm for this whole experience."

—

There had never been a queen of the Saiyans.

Perhaps an outsider would have attributed this to some inherent bigotry, but he could have named any number of female warriors immortalized in the legends of his people. The reality of it was that to crown a queen would have diminished the king. It would have implied that their ruler required a partner to shoulder his responsibilities, that the ultimate warrior had an equal, and that was just untrue. So his mother and his grandmother and his great-grandmother, they had all been nothing more than a female who rose to the king's attention and disappeared just as quickly into obscurity.

For so long, a queen had been nothing more than another backwards, pointless Earth tradition to be sneered at and forgotten. And certainly the character from the film last night had not helped to elucidate the concept any. That woman had been nothing more than a scheming harridan, and although she raised a few reasonable objections to her royal son marrying some clumsy, lowborn simpleton, the very thought of her was laughable.

Yet after living for so long in this forsaken place, the true capabilities of a woman in a position of power were reluctantly dawning on him. Like a dagger wrapped in silk, soft and sharp at once, on whose edge balanced the fates of innumerable others. _That_was what was on the faces of these people as they peered out at Bulma's progress across the building. Each wave or shy greeting was as good as a full obeisance. And it was not because she was a rich man's daughter that they stopped her over and over again to seek her approval or opinion on a particular project. She was absurdly weak, she could be destroyed with a flick of his wrist, but somehow she had their respect.

And he walked three steps behind her. Not, he argued to himself, as a sign of deference, but because it was easier to watch her back from that position. Now that he had bound himself to this foolish enterprise, he could not tarnish his honor by failing to prevent her death. At least until the end of the week.

Still, he was gritting his teeth by the time their halting procession reached a nervous, gangly redhead. Having already been the recipient of a lecture by Bulma on the proper method of handling the prickly prince, the man straightened and offered the pair an unsteady smile.

"Good morning! I wasn't expecting both of you today, but I would be happy to fetch you something for breakfast if you like, Vegeta sir."

"Don't bother, Eric," Bulma interrupted autocratically. "Vegeta survives entirely on the tears of the innocent. But I'll take two coffees."

Shockingly, the fool had the audacity to wink as a real grin flashed across his features. "Coming right up, boss."

Bulma ushered Vegeta inside her lab, and he waited until the door was closed before asking, "Why do you permit him to address you in that way?"

She shrugged. "I like him, he somehow magically always has a pen when I've lost mine, and he knows all my secrets. I can't afford to lose him at this point. In fact, it may be the closest to being married that I get." She handed him the breakfast sandwich waiting on her desk, and he accepted it wordlessly. "In case you didn't know, that is your social cue to offer me meaningless reassurance. Something along the lines of 'Oh, Bulma, you're still so young. Any man would jump at the chance to be with you.'"

He regarded her with as much hauteur as someone with a mouth full of sausage and egg could manage.

"Nevermind, it was worth a try." She flapped a hand at him and turned to begin rearranging the precarious stacks littering her workspace in a manner that was completely devoid of logic. "Go ahead and make yourself at home, then."

Since he had already inhaled the offered food, he did just that, and when she was done yelling at him for moving a few pieces of expensive equipment, he found he had an adequate amount of space to do some exercises. Just because he was relegated to guard duty for a couple days, there was no excuse to go completely soft. And as an additional benefit, he was finding that when the Earth woman was absorbed in her work, she was far less apt to chatter than under normal circumstances. So aside from her initial fit of hysterics, he was left uninterrupted until he chose to break the silence.

Taking a brief break to stretch his muscles, he made a short lap around the lab and stopped to peer over her shoulder. "What is that?"

She waited until she had fully released the contents of her micropipette into the tiny well before bothering to answer. "Gel electrophoresis. I've been trying to sequence Goku's DNA to see if I can identify a gene that makes Saiyans more susceptible to the heart virus. Right now I'm trying RFLP—restriction fragment length polymorphism—to compare Goku and Gohan's DNA in hopes it might help me narrow things down from an entire flippin' genome."

He scoffed. "I would be shocked if that boy was useful for anything."

"Hey," she said sharply, laying aside her pipette and pushing the hair back from her face. "_That boy_is something really remarkable. Sure, he's already far surpassed Goku's strength and abilities at that same age, but the real miracle is that he exists at all."

"Having met Kakarot, I have often had the same thought."

"No, no, no. You're missing the whole point." She brought her hands down against the table for emphasis. "You've been watching those nature documentaries, right? Think of all those billions of species on this planet. But only a select few are capable of reproducing across species. There's all kinds of barriers to it—genetic, geographic, differences in mating habits. So if interbreeding between species that evolved _on the same planet_is incredibly rare, how is it possible that some humanoid creature from light years away managed to come to Earth and knock up one of the local residents? The improbability of it is mind-boggling."

Her eyes were a bright, electric blue as she grew more impassioned. "He is possibly the most special thing on this planet, and merely by being alive he creates all kinds of compelling problems. Like, is he the end of the line evolutionarily? Is he a sort of mule?"

"Explain that," he demanded.

"The offspring of a horse and donkey. They're sterile, incapable of reproducing because—"

She was startled when Vegeta doubled over in a kind of choking laugh. "Wait," he rasped. "Tell me that word again. I want to remember it."

She caught the evil glint in his eyes and immediately went on the defensive. "Absolutely not. You are not to repeat any of this to Gohan. He's just a sweet little kid. I'm doing this as much to help him as you or Goku. And so much of it is just theoretical anyway, since it's proving difficult to identify the important bits of an entire genome from just three samples."

As unexpectedly as it had come, the mirth died in his face, crystalizing into something hard and brittle. "Did you say three samples?"

Her heart rate kicked into a higher gear as she scrambled for an explanation. "Yeah, I was already trying to establish some baseline values for you next time you landed in the infirmary, so it only made sense to—"

He sent her gel agar crashing to the ground with a quick sweep of his hand. Each word echoed with a ruthless finality. "I. Am. Not. An. Experiment."

He could have blown a hole through her laboratory. He could have killed her and set the whole place on fire, then strolled casually out of the ashes. But he simply stepped past her and walked out the door. He did not even bother to slam it.

—

Piccolo was wondering why he had ever wanted to rule a planet full of such ridiculous creatures whose continued existence rested entirely on a convoluted, illogical, and messy set of traditions and practices. Surely, asexual reproduction was a far superior process, where one could relax in peace and solitude before simply spitting out an egg. It was unbelievably foolish to attach any kind of emotion or ceremony to what, at its heart, was a selfish perpetuation of one's own lineage.

Goku, however, was becoming increasingly confident. "I'm sure of this one. Chi-Chi is always saying I should open doors for her. The problem is, there's never been a door she couldn't open herself. And then I realized, what if I could create a door she couldn't open? Bulma isn't nearly as strong as Chi-Chi, so it should be easy."

"Is this a common thing, locking unwilling women in rooms so that—"

But Goku was already gone. He reappeared a moment later just outside Bulma's lab. He had located Vegeta's power signal across the compound, and he knew the heiress was inside alone. However, he still paused to make sure his entrance had been unobserved and spied a red-headed man with his arms full of folders caught in conversation with a young woman in a white coat at the end of the hallway.

His window for action was obviously narrow, so he drew in a deep breath to center himself. He had to get this precisely right—just a small spike of energy to draw the other Saiyan's attention, but not enough to give away his identity. He let the breath out of his lungs in a short exhale as he reached for the doorknob and quickly crushed it.

When he reappeared in front of Piccolo after a few seconds, he found him apparently in deep meditation. The Namekian opened one eye and fixed his friend with a look that managed to be at once reflective and reproachful. "I may not understand human women, but I think I'm beginning to understand Chi-Chi. Has it ever occurred to you that you're not really _listening _to your wife, Goku?"

—

Bulma had spent several hours sulking. She had yelled a lot of unflattering things about arrogant extraterrestrials with dumb, gravity-defying hair who didn't appreciate the efforts of a certain genius to save their stupid lives at some oblivious machinery. And then she had banged on some other pieces of metal and circuitry until her temper had cooled enough to realize that she wasn't so much angry with Vegeta as she was furious with herself.

Of course the guy whose entire race had been nearly obliterated might be a little sensitive about his identity, even at a cellular level. Of course the guy who had been enslaved to a tyrannical mass murderer might have some control issues. Of course.

She had known it all along, deep down, but she had deliberately stored those samples away without his permission. Because she had wanted to. Because she was selfish and entitled, and no amount of good intentions could erase that.

So, when Eric brought her lunch later, she told him not to disturb her for the rest of the day and sat down for some existential soul-searching over a burrito. Fortunately, that took her no more than a half hour, but afterwards the afternoon stretched out in an interminable monotony punctuated only by brief bouts of guilt and misery.

She did not want to leave the lab. She did not want to walk out onto the lawn and see the scorch marks on the grass where the spaceship had once sat. She did not want to know he was gone for good this time and it was all her fault.

So she threw herself into several half-forgotten projects until she was sure the building was deserted. Until her eyes began to blur with fatigue. Until it was dark enough outside that she would barely be able stumble home without tripping over some stray pet from her parents' collection and she could ignore the ugly hole in the yard until the morning light. Or forever, if she happened to be abducted on her way.

Suddenly, kidnapping and torture was looking like an appealing option.

She was busy imagining what the newspaper headlines might have to say about the disappearance of the daughter of the world's most famous inventor as she gathered up her belongings and reached for the door. She absently turned the knob and nearly tumbled over backwards when nothing happened. She jiggled it in astonishment and gave a few more experimental tugs and shoves.

This swiftly escalated to pounding on the door with her fists and shouting for help when nothing else seemed to be working. The strange events of the past few days had primed her nerves, and a locked room in an empty building was more than enough to plunge her into a full blown meltdown. The air in her lungs seemed artificially thin and the walls seemed unnaturally close as she turned up the volume on her pleas. Never mind that whoever had tampered with the lock must be securely on the other side of the door, she desperately needed out of this impromptu prison.

Two bruised knuckles and several tears later, she slumped into her chair. That level of terror was impossible to sustain, and there was a numbness creeping in at the edges that allowed her space for a few coherent thoughts. If anyone was capable of solving this conundrum, it was her. So, with hands that were still shaking, she logged into the Capsule Corp system and tried a manual override of the keypad outside of her lab.

When this failed to produce any results, she kicked irritably at the barrier between her and the outside world. Then she limped back to her seat on yet another injured limb to contemplate the phone that had previously caused her so much anxiety. It wasn't until this moment that she realized how pathetically short the list of people she could turn to in her hour of need was. Her parents were too far away, Goku was frequently off the grid, Yamcha was out of the question, and Eric would undoubtedly be relaxing at home after all the times she had berated him for trying to adhere to her erratic work schedule.

There was always emergency services, and she briefly entertained a fantasy of some attractive firefighter bursting in to her rescue. That short daydream left her disgusted with herself, however, and more determined to resolve the situation on her own. Truthfully, there had never been a dilemma she couldn't solve with the proper application of a hammer.

Fifteen minutes later, she had dismantled the door hinges and watched as the damned thing toppled inwards. Dusting off her hands a little, she stepped over her fallen foe and sauntered triumphantly into the hallway.

She had barely begun her victory lap, however, when a hand closed around her upper arm in an iron grip and yanked her sideways. She reacted instinctively, pivoting around to strike out with her free hand, while unleashing her most fearsome war cry. The sound died on her lips, though, as Vegeta effortlessly caught her wrist and jerked her to a standstill just a handspan away from him.

Her throat was still raw from screaming and her cognitive processes had been thoroughly scrambled more than once in the past half hour, so he was the first to speak.

"I believe you now."

"You—What—When—" She tried to start three different questions simultaneously as the dam between her brain and her mouth broke open.

He released her and went to lift the door so that he could show her the mangled remains of the knob on the other side. "No ordinary human did that. I believe you now. Your life must truly be in danger, because a person capable of something like that does not bother with idle threats."

"Wait, you believe me _now_?" All the charitable thoughts she had had about Vegeta over the past few hours were rapidly evaporating. "What about last night? And if I'm in so much danger, where the _hell_have you been?"

"If you are going to try to hit me again, woman," he said, glancing pointedly at her balled fists, "I would suggest waiting until I am incapacitated in some fashion. Or possibly dead, if you really want to stack the odds in your favor. Rest assured, even if I did not catch the culprit in action, you were never at risk."

Despite his warning, she was doing a quick calculation of how many bones she was willing to break in the hopes of slapping the smug look off his face. "So what, you've been just—just _lurking_here in the hallway all this time? Didn't you hear me screaming for help?"

"It seemed like you were equal to the problem at hand."

Something inside her went a bit wobbly and sideways as the train of her argument derailed. She had lost count of the times her life had been in mortal peril over the years, but not once could she remember one of the men in her life stepping back and saying, "I was going to save you, but it looks like you've got this under control. Good job." In typical princely fashion, he had managed to be high-handed and petty while simultaneously delivering an honest-to-goodness compliment, and she would be furious except for the little flush of gratification that was running through her.

She took a deep breath and unclenched her hands. "Alright, Vegeta. I'll say this quickly because neither of us is going to enjoy it very much. I'm sorry. I was wrong. I didn't have any right to do what I did. You're used to people who manipulate you to get what they want, and no matter my intentions, I haven't proven myself to be much better than them. So, from now on, I'm taking a more straightforward approach, and if there's something I do that you don't understand, just know that it's probably because I'm glad that you're alive and I'd like to keep you that way. Although it may be because you annoy the shit out of me sometimes. Fifty-fifty odds."

He acknowledged all this with a stiff nod. "After considering it, I have decided you can keep any samples already in your possession and continue with your research. But if there is anything further you require from me, you will ask…so I can have the pleasure of telling you no myself."

She grinned, feeling a little giddy with relief. "Then shall we seal the deal with a sign of goodwill? I've got something for you." She hopped quickly over the door, rummaged around in the drawers of her desk for a few minutes, then emerged with something clasped in her hands.

Vegeta frowned as she dropped a small cylinder into his hand. "It's a communication device," she explained. "I've got the other, so that next time you pull your disappearing act I can contact you."

"I am not a dog that you can call to heel."

She pinched the bridge of her nose as she sighed. All her best gestures were lost on him. "Ideally, this is supposed to increase your freedom, Vegeta, so you don't have to spend every moment of the day chained to me. However, if you still need some incentive, just remember that the only way you get your new armor is if you are a _very good boy _and _come."_

Having already exhausted her magnanimous feelings toward him, she turned and started for the exit. Vegeta remained where she had left him, running an uncertain finger over the comm device, torn between a desire to incinerate it and, strangely, to laugh. In the end, he did neither, simply pocketing the object. He covered the distance between them in a few quick steps, resuming his designated defensive position.

Three steps behind. Never closer.

* * *

A/N: Thank you all for your kind words so far! I've been using this little story as an exercise to get back into writing after more years away than I care to admit, and the feedback is wonderful. Hopefully you'll stick with me for another two chapters!


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Ugh! Don't know why these bits were so hard so write. But my darling husband and muse requested Vegeta playing mini-golf, so I humbly present Vegeta playing mini-golf...and doing other things.

* * *

"Honestly, I don't know why I didn't think of this first," Goku said with eternal optimism as he peered into a series of glass display cases.

Piccolo wisely said nothing, because that was what he was best at.

"Do you have any samples?" the Saiyan asked the unsuspecting vendor behind the counter. The man dutifully produced a tray of colorful macarons and sumptuous truffles. Before he could point out some of the finer features of his merchandise, Goku had swept the whole out of his hands and was busy cramming the delicacies into his mouth.

Oblivious to the look of horror on the proprietor's face, Goku paused in his appreciation of the wares to hold out a few sweets to his companion in chocolate-coated fingers. "Want to try?"

Piccolo shook his head mutely and tugged his baseball cap lower, trying desperately to look less like a terrifying green alien in a gourmet chocolate shop.

"These are fantastic!" Goku flashed a guileless smile at the shopkeeper that further unnerved him. "Could we get a dozen of each of these…" He began to gesture at the cases. "Six of those...Definitely a couple of those marzipans...Is that all you have of the raspberry-filled ones? We'll take all of them..."

When Goku was finished and the total was rung up, there was an expectant silence on the part of the owner while the two warriors exchanged a frantic glance.

Piccolo cleared his throat. "Perhaps something small and tasteful might be better?"

"You're right," his friend agreed. "That's more Vegeta's style. Anything too over-the-top might make her suspicious."

Sometime later, the shopkeeper took a momentary break from tabulating his losses to glance out the front window, hoping that the strange pair had finally vacated the sidewalk outside. Unfortunately, he could still see the intimidating man with the peculiar skin condition loitering nearby. The fact that his accomplice with the perpetual bedhead was nowhere in sight was more a source of a relief than curiosity, however. And it would have taken more imagination than he was capable of to have guessed that his erstwhile customer was currently materializing in the home of one of West City's most preeminent residents.

Goku had been unable to lock onto an energy signature from either Bulma or Vegeta at Capsule Corporation, but after a few minutes of frustrated searching, he had recognized that of the red-haired man from the previous day. Eric was coincidentally delivering some documents for his boss to the main house, and he turned to make his blissfully ignorant descent down the stairs at the same time a Saiyan appeared in the doorway to Bulma's room. Goku held himself rigidly still as he watched the stranger dip out of sight, his precious cargo tucked under his arm. A distant beeping sounded as Eric used the keypad in the kitchen to reset the alarm, but Goku largely ignored it as he sprang into action. Intent on completing his mission swiftly, he darted across the room and bent to nestle a heart-shaped box of chocolates in the unmade sheets.

And that's when the world exploded.

—

The next morning dawned in a quiet kind of way that unsettled Bulma to her very bones. She woke from the dreamless sleep of the truly exhausted and stumbled through her morning routine, nearly giving herself whiplash from the amount of times she glanced over her shoulder at an unexpected noise. By the time she made it downstairs, she found Vegeta, who was still barred from the gravity simulator on the grounds it was too great a distraction, performing some handstand push-ups in the yard. She kept him in sight through the kitchen window as she prepared, cooked, burned, and disposed of breakfast. Afterwards, she sat at the table drinking coffee and contemplating the day before her. She had ruled out the possibility of visiting her lab until the traumatic events of the previous evening had faded some—or at least until the door was reinstalled—but that didn't mean she was completely without a sense of purpose. So, while Vegeta showered, she spent some time picking out her own brand of armor: pencil skirt, blouse, blazer, and a particularly killer pair of shoes. Then, when they were both presentable, she drove them across town for a mid-morning meeting with some investors.

Vegeta's interest in the proceedings was non-existent, and he whiled away the time by standing in a corner looking unconsciously sinister. Whether this had any influence on the outcome of the affair was impossible to determine, but Bulma seemed pleased with the negotiations. For someone under imminent threat of death, she was suddenly remarkably buoyant, right down to the uptempo click of her heels on the concrete as they navigated the parking lot.

Upon reaching the car, Bulma dug around in the back seat for a minute before emerging brandishing a pair of sneakers. "I've had a brilliant idea."

"And presumably this has something to do with your choice of footwear," he observed dryly.

"It's a wonder I ever doubted there was a brain behind all those muscles," she matched his sarcasm as she sat sideways in the driver seat. Leaning over to slide off her heels, she simultaneously began a losing battle against her skirt bunching up her thighs. "Since you're so extraordinarily observant, surely you've noticed that all the threats against me so far have centered around Capsule Corp." She gave an ineffectual wriggle and tugged at her hemline before returning to lacing her tennis shoes. "Now it's time to do something unpredictable to see if this creep can actually track my location." She stood again to smooth her clothing back into a semblance of respectability. "And because I'm feeling confident right now, I'm going to beat you at something."

Vegeta's expression as he leaned against the trunk told her just how likely he thought that was.

She ignored his skepticism. "I know a miniature golf place not far from here where we can kill a couple of hours," she informed him.

"And what is that?"

"It's golf. But smaller."

"You realize that is not helpful."

She smirked. She couldn't help it. Sometimes he was just such a perfect target. "I think this is something I just have to show you."

Which is how Vegeta found himself standing on a strip of artificial grass, holding an absurdly fragile club, staring into the jaws of an animatronic Tyrannosaurus rex. He drew a long breath through his nose as he concentrated on channeling all the embarrassment and anger roiling through him into a short, controlled movement that would hopefully send the infuriatingly tiny pink ball into the equally tiny hole just between the dinosaur's outstretched claws.

A moment later the golf ball smashed through a windmill three holes over and ricocheted straight through an aluminum-sided trailer that sold snow cones during peak hours.

"Again," demanded Vegeta, holding out an open palm.

"I did explain about how the _lowest_ score wins, right?" Bulma worried at her lip with her teeth as she watched the ball roll away, wondering if this had all been a terrible plan to begin with.

"Again," he said.

She shrugged and dug around in the sack she was carrying. When she dropped another neon pink ball into his waiting palm, he regarded it for a moment with obvious consternation. Mentally he was making a note that once he was done beating this minuscule spheroid of torment into submission, he would go in search of whatever halfwit employee she had bribed to further his humiliation. But first, most importantly, he would sink this putt, because he had never backed down from a challenge.

His next shot sailed over the main office and into the parking lot. Distantly, a car alarm began to wail.

"We'll leave a note," Bulma said, struggling somewhere between a wince and a snort of painful amusement.

"Again," Vegeta said.

She withdrew another pink ball from her collection but held it just beyond his reach. "Let's slow it down here for a minute, sport. This isn't about brute strength. You're trying too hard, and that's where it's all going wrong." She stepped closer to slide her hand under his elbow. She felt his whole body tense with the effort not to immediately strike her down, but she wasn't afraid. She had since learned that there were scarier things in the universe than the Prince of All Saiyans, and at least he didn't have any scales or clawed feet or other unsettling appendages. "_Relax_." She shook his arm a little for emphasis. "All of this stress is holding you back. Now, let it go."

The club hit the ground as it fell from his suddenly loose grip. She smothered a laugh and bent to retrieve it. "Okay, maybe less literally. Give me your hand." With obvious reluctance he offered it up. "Put your hand _here_, with your thumb like this. And then you wrap your other hand around like this. Feet apart, knees slightly bent, shoulders down." Her touch fluttered lightly from knee to nape of neck back to elbow as she rattled off instructions. "Remember, it's mainly in the wrist, but you need to shift your hips a little through your stroke. Oh yeah, and most importantly, try to _have fun_."

She released him and retreated a few steps. Resting one hand against her hip, she smiled encouragingly at him. "You think you've got all that, champ?"

"This is an idiotic pastime with absolutely no actual consequences," he said aloud so it mattered less. Then he settled his attention on the trial before him. _Relax_, he repeated as he felt his fingers deforming the grip of the putter. _Let it go. Let it go._

This time, the head of the club made contact with a muted _thunk_, and the ball accelerated at an easy, steady pace along the turf. There was an unbidden stab of hope between his ribs as it raced smoothly towards a raised ridge that stood between the tee and his target. Unhappily, it was soon evident that the ball was losing momentum as it climbed the slope, and it teetered for a moment on the crest before rolling slowly, inexorably backwards to rest at his feet.

He was busy crushing his opponent into a fistful of pink dust when Bulma's cell phone rang.

"Hey, boss," Eric greeted her slightly breathlessly when she answered. "Everything is okay, but—" Bulma abstractedly knotted her fingers in the material of her blouse because that was exactly what someone said when things were not okay. "—did you mean for your room to detonate? Just a little, I mean."

She ran a nervous hand through her hair. "Did you check out the damage?"

"Yeah, no worries. The fire department and the police have already been and gone. Nothing structural. Mainly just personal effects."

"Ah. And did you happen to find, uh, any remains, human or otherwise?"

"No." Eric was too good of an assistant to be surprised by her question. "Should I have?"

"No," she answered automatically before reconsidering. "Yes. Maybe. It's complicated. I'll explain later, but we're on our way back."

Hanging up, she made an urgent gesture that drew Vegeta out of his detailed musings on his plan for ultimate retribution. "I'm just going to put you down for three strokes. We've got to go put out some fires. Hopefully just the figurative kind."

—

Operation Bigger Laser had been an unmitigated failure.

A little moan of despair escaped Bulma as she stared at the charred remains of her bed. Ironically, the only part of her mattress that had survived the blast was a little island on which sat a heart-shaped box of chocolate-covered strawberries. The half-melted sticky sweet remains taunted her with her inability to get ahead of her unknown invader.

"Take that outside and blow it up," she demanded of her companion.

Vegeta was surprisingly happy to oblige with the pyrotechnics. When he returned, she was piling splinters of bed frame, singed blankets, shreds of clothing, and the disemboweled remains of a couple down pillows in a corner. Stray feathers drifted on air currents, falling like fat, lazy snowflakes, and one clung stubbornly to a strand of blue hair. He did not point it out to her, but unconsciously he clenched and unclenched one fist as he stared at it.

She glanced up at him absently as she was busy making a mental list of tasks to accomplish. "I know it's not technically in the job description, but would you mind lugging all this out to the trash? And the rug and mattress too? Thank you," she added without waiting for an answer. "I must have screwed up the calibration on the laser somehow, but I'd feel safer taking it apart just to be sure."

By the time he had finished the menial labor, she was perched precariously on a ladder underneath the laser hanging from her ceiling, her head haloed in multicolor wires, as she unleashed a seemingly endless stream of profanity. He withdrew as quietly as he had come, eager to be spared any further dictates. She already paid one man to do her bidding; she had no right to expect him to jump when she snapped her fingers.

The hours of solitude that followed should have been a relief, but unmoored from his usual routine, he drifted between one diversion and the next with a growing sense of frustration. Only one woman was responsible for this new form of torture and tedium, but strangely when she appeared again, laptop in hand, rather than snarling at her, the restlessness that possessed him subsided ever so slightly.

"I wanted your opinion on this," she said, sliding next to him on the couch and flipping open the screen. "This is the footage from my thermal camera. Everything's fine until about a minute before the blast. Then the feed glitches and totally whites out. Something generating a lot of heat might be able to reset the sensors like that, or maybe a huge source of electromagnetic energy could disrupt it. But it sure wasn't my laser that did it."

He watched her as she rewound the video to pour over the moment of malfunction again. "What you are thinking," he said slowly, "is that it was not _something_ but _someone_. Someone capable of generating an enormous amount of power. But you don't want to say it, because you want me to say it."

"Yes." A hysterical laugh escaped her. "I'm terrified that I'm out of my depth here. If I can't track it and I can't make it explode, I'm basically out of options. Thanks to our excursion today, the only thing I know right now is that my housebreaker isn't keeping dibs on my exact location. So maybe it's time to throw in the towel. Pack up our things and find a hotel to put up at until this blows over."

His face remained the same scornful mask as ever, but there was a shade of disappointment in his eyes as he regarded her. "You will retreat."

She sighed as she ran a hand over her face. "What other option do I have?"

"You can stay and fight. This is your home."

He said it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, so that she even stopped to consider it before remembering that he was the crazy one. "And how do you suggest I do that?"

He arched a condescending brow at her. "Why ask me? I am merely the hired help. All I can say is that if you run now, you will be running for the rest of your life, and that may not be long at all. Better to take a stand here, where you hold the higher ground."

"Time to choose the hill I want to die on, hmm?" She leaned her head against the back of the couch. Well, _damn_, if he was crazy, maybe she was a little bit too.

"Perhaps I need to remind you that the goal is not to die?"

"Noted." She covered a yawn and squirmed against the cushion. "At the very least, we can sleep on it. Hopefully my next genius plan will be revealed to me in a dream." She cast a mischievous sideways look at him. "Speaking of which, congratulations on your new roommate. I think we're going to get along splendidly."

With her bedroom in shambles and none of the guest rooms equipped with additional security monitoring, it was the only logical move to bunk with Vegeta for the evening. But as easily as her decision was made, that did nothing to alleviate the actual awkwardness that ensued.

She had no misguided expectations that he would offer up his bed for her comfort, leaving it incumbent upon her to wrestle a twin mattress down the hallway and gather up whatever spare bedding she could find. He silently observed her progress, back stiff, arms crossed, and if he didn't offer any assistance, at least he didn't offer any surly remarks either. Even still, by the time she had adequately constructed her pallet on the floor, she was slightly out of breath and entirely out of patience, so not even holding his tongue earned him a full reprieve.

It was only fair that if he wasn't going to be a gentleman about this, she was under no obligation to be a lady. Defiantly, she stripped down to her usual nightly garb of underwear and tank top. Which was when he laid down on his bed and pointedly turned to face the wall.

With an exasperated huff over prudish princes, she hit the lights and curled up on her mattress. She anticipated between her unfamiliar surroundings and the constant tide of anxiety washing over her that sleep would be evasive, but as she wrapped herself in the glow of her spiteful little victory, it came to greet her like an old friend.

—

A kick to the stomach ripped her from the arms of a dream, and she instinctively curled into a defensive ball. This protective maneuver only succeeded in tripping a startled and half-blind Saiyan. There was a confusion of limbs and sound, which ended with her head wedged into his armpit and one of her arms wrapped around his midsection.

"Unhand me this instant," Vegeta growled, and, pressed indecently against him as she was, she could practically feel rage vibrating through him like a live wire.

She released him as if he really had shocked her, rolling flat on her back, arms falling limply at her sides. As he rose to his knees in the semi-dark, a single thought surfaced—or more like the shape of a thought, since she pushed it down ruthlessly before it had a chance to take form. And yet, shrouded in shadows as much as his features hovering over her, it still accelerated her heartbeat and flushed her skin as it brushed against her consciousness.

She snatched at a blanket as he stormed towards the door, disgusted by her body's betrayal. Sure, her research had required that she spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about alien sex recently, but that did not mean she would be making the leap from the theoretical to the realm of the experimental. She had zero intention of jumping on the first man-shaped being with a pulse, especially when said being happened to be an unrepentant murderer.

Lurching to her feet, she wrapped the blanket more securely around herself. She was quickly coming to regret her impetuous actions from the night before. In the light of day, she felt exposed and childish and _small_.

Except that it wasn't light, and she wasn't even certain that it was a new day.

"Wait," she called tripping over the edges of the blanket as she hurried after him. "What time is it?"

"Morning," he said curtly without bothering to stop.

"Yes, but what part of the morning, specifically? Because there's a part for sleeping, and there's another part for—well, honestly that's for sleeping too, but you feel more guilty about it."

He had finally paused in his flight to level a particularly chilly stare at her. He said slowly, as if speaking to a gerbil of only middling intelligence, "It is the part where you stop asking me stupid questions."

"Fine." She tossed her head, then immediately was forced to grapple with her impromptu garment as it slipped from her shoulders. "Since you were so generous as to arrange an early wake-up call, I'm sure you won't mind forfeiting first rights to the shower. I hope you like cold water, because it is going to take an awful long time in there before I feel remotely human."

"I will be within screaming distance," he snapped and resumed striding down the hallway, away from her.

Inexplicably, she found that reassuring.

—

Goku limped home in defeat. After his distressingly close encounter with Bulma's new security system, he was slightly singed and thoroughly shaken. And something Piccolo had said about Chi-Chi was rattling doggedly around in the back of his brain.

It had become suddenly and, well, _painfully_ obvious that the opportunities for meddling in Bulma and Vegeta's lives would be limited from here on out, and their next maneuver may well be the last they could manage. Their penultimate ploy had to be brilliant and inescapable and downright poetic. And while he was a master of the martial arts, this required a very specific kind of genius that was completely beyond his scope. So, he had come in search of the only woman in the world who had ever successfully ensnared a Saiyan.

This time, he would listen to her, _really_ listen. And then he would repeat it all to Piccolo just to be sure he understood it exactly.

The sunlight cascading through the kitchen window paused to rest on the curve of her cheek as she brushed away an errant strand of dark hair. Plunging her arms elbow-deep in a steaming basin of water, she hummed softly as she resumed meticulously scouring a large pot. Once she was satisfied with her scrubbing, she set it beside a neat stack of spotless pans and other cooking utensils.

He watched all this, paralyzed on the threshold, uncertain of his welcome after their last parting. But then she turned, wiping her hands with a cloth, and her smile was like the sunrise burning through a morning fog.

"Hello, Goku. Were you planning on coming in, or is this just a short visit?"

He returned her grin, letting go of a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "I'm sorry, you know."

"I would be surprised if you weren't." Something wistful slipped along the edges of her words, but her cheerful expression never wavered. She reached out to take his hand and led him to a chair. Pressing him to sit, she fussed and fluttered and fetched.

Halfway through a bowl of stew, it occurred to him that he might like to save the world for her, just one more time. Which meant he had to get all these next bits exactly right.

"Chi-Chi." He swallowed his mouthful of food and tried again. "Chi-Chi, I've been thinking, if there were one thing that I could do that would make you really happy, what would it be?"

The question took her aback, her mouth dropping open a little in astonishment. She gawked at her husband for a moment before turning to cast a searching glance over her tidy kitchen in her cozy little home. She narrowed her eyes at the tower of dishes resting by the sink. She looked down at her hands, still pink and slightly wrinkled from the scalding water.

"Well," she said slowly, warming to the idea, "it might be nice to have a meal together, just the two of us, but one that I didn't have to cook myself."

The simple wisdom of it struck him. "That's perfect!" He enthused. "A romantic dinner. Why didn't I think of that? Bulma will love it!"

Goku sensed the descending clouds of marital discord the second his heedless words left his mouth, and he and Chi-Chi locked eyes across the room. Just as she drew in a breath to begin yelling, her itinerant spouse winked out of sight, taking with him the remainder of his lunch.

Briefly, she contemplated smashing a few dishes, but no one else except her was going to clean them up afterwards, so she settled for violently polishing a serving platter until she could see her own thunderous scowl reflected in its glossy surface, beautiful and terrible.

—

Bulma hit the mattress with a wordless croon of pleasure. Basking in the unadulterated perfection of the sensation, she arched her back a little, head falling recklessly to the side as she curled her toes.

"Vegeta," she purred, "get over here."

When no response was forthcoming, she peeled open one eye to meet the equally confounded expressions of one Saiyan and one salesman.

"Seriously," she prompted, "you need to try this one."

With a grimace, Vegeta stepped forward. He sat deliberately on the very edge of the mattress and gave it one perfunctory bounce. "Entirely adequate," he commented flatly.

She propped herself up on an elbow and gestured pointedly at the space next to her. "No. Here. You have to get the full experience."

Ensuring that she could read the displeasure in his every movement, he settled rigidly next to her, folded his arms, locked his eyes on the ceiling, and gave a noncommittal grunt.

"I think this is the one," she gushed in the face of his sullenness. "I think this is the mattress I've been waiting my whole life for. I may never leave my bed again."

He turned his head to regard her and in his dark eyes was not only a silent castigation of her character but also a curse on all her ancestors who had ultimately given rise to this moment in time.

She sat up halfway and gestured dismissively at the salesman who was still staring in obvious confusion. "Give us a second to discuss this one, will you?"

"Of course." The man appeared visibly relieved at the opportunity to escape a palpably awkward interaction. "If you like this one, there's another pillow top I can cut you an unbelievable deal on, but you and your husband take all the time you need. I'll just be over there if you have any questions."

She half-opened her lips to tell him exactly what she thought of his antiquated assumption that any smart, successful woman couldn't possibly contemplate an expensive household purchase in public without first shackling herself permanently to some witless male. But she quickly realized this might require explaining that the particular male accompanying her was no more than a freeloading alien who was passing the time until the arrival of a couple of killer robots, and that his sole purpose in being here today was to protect her from a ghostly assailant who was making her life a walking nightmare. Instead, she settled for smiling at him and making some carefully neutral reply that would hasten his departure.

She flopped over on her side to face Vegeta. "Now that he's gone, tell me what you really think."

"I think," he said, making each word cut, "that I am going to save your secret admirer the trouble and kill you myself."

She laughed, which was decidedly not the reaction he had been aiming for. "Okay, but first you're going to answer my question. What do you _think_?"

A sigh. "I think, as sleeping contraptions go, it is unexceptionable."

"Ugh." She made a face at him. "I thought royalty was supposed to have taste. Isn't that what 'The Princess and the Pea' is about?"

"What do vegetables possibly have to do with any of this?"

"It's a fairytale in which a young woman proves her nobility by being exceptionally thin-skinned. A fairytale," she continued quickly, anticipating his next question before he could voice it, "is a made up story we tell to children. They're mainly about maidens in distress being rescued by handsome princes." She paused to waggle her eyebrows lightheartedly at him.

"They sound ridiculous."

"Well, they are," she agreed, thinking of a bandit from the desert who had never quite come up to the snuff of happily-ever-after. "But you might like the ones about young kids in mortal peril."

He snorted. "Why bother to lie to your offspring in the first place? A Saiyan child would have been raised on the tales of his people's greatest triumphs—"

"Blah blah blah, crushing skulls and bathing in the blood of your enemies. Spare me the details. The point I'm trying to make is, you've lived an awful long time for someone who has never _enjoyed_ life. I know that wandering around exterminating planets doesn't lend itself to collecting comforts, but as long as you're hanging around me, I'm going to teach you to appreciate some of the finer things in life. Starting with this mattress. I'm going to buy one for each of us, and hopefully you will grow to cherish it so much that you will never get me out of bed before dawn ever again. Ever."

He frowned. "It seems unnecessary. Besides which, that man did claim he could sell you another mattress for significantly less."

"That man is selling a fairytale as much as any story. Odds are it would be lumpier than a sack of potatoes within a few months. No, part of growing up is realizing that what you're told you want is frequently nothing like what you actually want."

In the downturn of his lips was a perpetual wariness that she had grown accustomed to, but something new watched her from his eyes with a sharpness she couldn't decipher. It made her acutely nervous, and she jumped to pick up the stray threads of conversation. "My mind is made up, so why am I still boring you with this? Especially when there are at least fourteen other things on my shopping list I could be boring you with. Like...curtains! Have I told you how desperately I need new curtains?"

—

"I have examined this from every angle," Piccolo explained to Goku, shuffling seriously through a stack of papers in his hands, "and there is only one plausible explanation."

Carefully, reverently, he began to lay the sheets on the ground, pinning each in place with a rock to protect it from a cool wind swaying the branches above them.

"Any two people can share a meal," he continued instructively. "Father and son." He nodded in the direction of Gohan, who was engrossed in a set of training exercises. "Friends. Even enemies have been known to eat together on occasion. So what signals that a dinner has a more amorous intention?"

Goku scratched his head thoughtfully, but Piccolo went on without waiting for additional input. "I failed to uncover any specific food that serves this purpose. Flowers we already found to be ineffective. That leaves only one obvious solution—candles."

Goku took a second look at the visual aids his friend had provided and began to appreciate the common theme. Multiple pages torn from magazines and advertisements, even a lone movie poster, all showing besotted couples gazing at each other by candlelight.

"However," Piccolo expounded, pointing to a few examples from his collection, "there is no consensus on how many candles to use. One, two, six. The only reasonable assumption is that more candles are more effective." He ended by gesturing at a photo that, unlike the others, showed a man down on one knee in front of his sweetheart while dozens of tealights gleamed around them.

Goku nodded, quickly doing a series of calculations of his own. At one point, he was forced to resort to using his fingers. "This is our last shot. We have to make it count, so I'm thinking at least twenty-five—no, thirty candles should do the trick."

Piccolo shook his head, folding his arms resolutely. "We cannot fail. Make it fifty."

—

Curled on a lawn chair, Bulma nursed the fading light of day like the final few drops in a glass. It had been nearly three days since the last explosive visit from her unknown enemy. The week she had bargained with Vegeta for was rapidly drawing closer to its end, and while she had spent her time dropping a hefty sum expediting the renovation of her bedroom so that she no longer needed to crash with the Saiyan down the hall, she was lamentably no closer to solving the mystery of her attacker. In spite of this, she was beginning to embrace a cautious hope that the narrow escape from her laser had sent whoever-it-was screaming for the hills. So, although she had initially settled down with the intention of sketching some security updates, she had since allowed her thoughts to drift unchecked onto greener pastures.

She paused in the midst of some furious scribbling to search her surroundings for an elusive variable. As she stretched the limits of her brilliance, Vegeta was completing a series of stretches himself. Catching her eye mid-side bend, he raised enquiring brows at her, and she obligingly flipped her notepad for his appraisal.

"A time machine," she explained succinctly.

"If you are going to waste your time on useless projects, I suppose it is no concern of mine."

"Well," she retorted defensively, "if that kid with a sword is the real deal, that means it's not hopeless. Someone invented it. What has been bothering me is I want it to be _me_. If it's possible, I would hate for somebody else to succeed where I failed. But—" she stopped herself before she finished that thought. _But I guess you know what that's like._ "But I'm still struggling with how to condense matter enough to create a—"

She realized Vegeta was no longer paying attention a moment before he asked, "Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?" she replied automatically, but then her eyes followed his to the house, where she could see the frenetic flickering of light through the windows. A moment later a high-pitched siren registered on her senses.

"Shit!" She tripped over her chair in her haste to spring to her feet. "Vegeta—the fire alarm!"

They were both running. He reached the door first, but hesitated after opening it, trying to ascertain the source of the smoke. She ducked under his arm while he faltered, pelting down the hallway, a terrible certainty lodged in her chest. "This way!" she called over her shoulder. Reaching the dining room, she dropped to her knees and, against all reason, crawled into the heat of the blaze.

The scene before her tied her stomach into a sickening knot. The table had been set for two, complete with gleaming china and crisply folded white napkins. Serving dishes were crowded between the settings, overflowing with a diverse range of delicacies. Every other possible surface had been choked with candles, some burning straight and true, others slumped and guttering as their wax spread in molten pools. At the opposite wall, three candles had fallen over entirely, setting fire to a wooden cabinet and feeding the flames now climbing the wallpaper towards the ceiling. And in the riotous, unsteady illumination of the growing inferno, the table still waited under an eerie veil of stillness and calm for its nameless guests.

"Vegeta," she gasped, beginning to inch towards the windows, hoping to pull down the curtains and smother as much of the fire as she could before it had a chance to spread much further. "Fire extinguisher. Dad's lab." He was indisputably faster, and her father's laboratory was closest.

She didn't turn to look at him, keeping her head as low to the ground as she could, but suddenly she felt an electricity crackling through the already sizzling air. Then, the guy who had a reputation for incinerating things unleashed a staggering gust of air that extinguished the flames like an oversized birthday cake.

She had fallen flat under the initial force, but she quickly recovered and staggered to her feet. Taking a wobbly step in Vegeta's direction, she distantly heard the tinkling of broken glass from the blown-out windows and felt the first faint trickle of fresh air hit her face. "That was am—"

She slammed into the wall with enough velocity that spots briefly danced across her vision. As she slid down to rest on the floor, snuffed candles rained down around her, spattering her with hot wax. She was too shocked to cry out, but she blinked unbidden tears from her eyes and tasted blood in her mouth as she attempted to focus on her attacker.

Vegeta still held the hand he had struck her with out in front of him, while with the other he shifted the weight of a charred section of ceiling that had collapsed. Plaster crumbled around him and a heavy wooden beam hit the ground with a splintering crash when he tossed it aside.

Time sped up and slowed down simultaneously. She could barely recall peeling herself off the floor and shambling back outside. The arrival of the fire department was a blur of flashing lights and shouting. The paramedic's examination hardly registered as she limply submitted herself to scrutiny.

But a part of herself remained in that moment, bruised and stunned in the corner, the metallic taste of blood welling up from where she had bitten the inside of her lip. The stars in her vision dimmed, and there was Vegeta, a look of unprecedented fierceness on his features transforming him into someone completely unrecognizable. The only thought in her head was how wrong, how utterly wrong and foolish she had been.

From the very beginning, she had only ever intended him to act as a sour-faced deterrent to whoever was threatening her. She had never imagined that if her life had actually been in immediate danger that he would have ever have lifted a finger to save her.

It was always a mistake to underestimate Vegeta.

Once she had been cleared by the paramedics and provided a preliminary statement to the authorities, she went in search of her unlikely rescuer and found him rather vehemently rebuffing a medical examination of his own. She slid between him and the visibly uneasy young woman, pointing him back towards the house. "Go change your clothes," she ordered. "We're both unharmed. The fire damage is confined to two rooms. We're going to celebrate. And I don't care if either of us is hungry, because it might be our last meal for awhile. When we get back, we're throwing out every scrap of food in this house. I don't trust any of it."

Since she was obviously the lesser of two evils, Vegeta stalked away to obey her commands. In his absence, she leaned heavily on the power of her charm and a little on the influence of her wealth to gently but firmly send all of the emergency personnel packing. Relieved and bone-weary, she threw on a fresh set of clothes herself with none of her usual scrupulousness, scrubbed her face, and collected her cantankerous bodyguard.

For the site of their victory feast, she settled on a steakhouse for which they were decidedly underdressed, but a smile and a few words in the right ear secured them prompt seating at a secluded table. She had chosen this particular establishment for one key feature: the lack of menus. This was an all-you-can-eat experience where waiters appeared regularly to carve up different cuts of meat tableside. She figured it would be one less part of the dining experience she would have to educate her secluded houseguest on.

Whatever trick he had pulled with the fire must have worked up quite the appetite, because contrary to her indifference, she found that Vegeta was eying the circling waitstaff with obvious impatience.

"How do you summon one of the food servants?"

"Shhh!" She made a quelling gesture. "Look, one's coming this way. And could you maybe refrain from calling them servants? Most people take offense at that."

She had already predicted the next scene the moment she set her mind on this restaurant, but it was somehow better than she imagined. The waiter presented a rack of lamb for them to enjoy a small portion. Obviously underwhelmed by this offer, Vegeta promptly relieved the man of his burden and began tearing into the meat with unselfconscious pleasure. She laughed, and when no one was looking, slipped the server an extra tip, promising that everyone would be compensated handsomely if they just kept the food coming.

Unlike she expected, however, her amusement at his expense did nothing to lift the cloud over her. Instead, it opened up an ache between her ribs, small, but sharp and tenacious. Suddenly the table between them stretched to impossible, impassable dimensions. He was distant as a quasar and just as unreachable.

She had dabbled in astrophysics more than once through the years, and she knew quite a few people who had fallen in love with stars. People who looked into the darkness and saw a few points of distant light and were struck to their very souls.

Not that she was in love with Vegeta, because that would be absolutely the stupidest thing she had done in a long string of stupid things. But she began to think she might understand why astronomers could spend their whole lives watching the heavens passing them by.

And it occurred to her then that she had been monumentally unfair to Yamcha. For so long she had blamed the latest and last collapse of their romance on his death, which, in her defense, was a totally reasonable conclusion for most girlfriends. She had traversed the empty reaches of space and risked her life for a second chance with him, and if she had panicked when he started talking matrimony, it was obviously his fault. Something about him had changed irrevocably between death and resurrection. Yet, the truth was, he was still just as sweet, just as earnest, and just as faithless as he ever had been. She was the one who wasn't the same, and it had all begun the moment she left Earth's atmosphere. Having travelled the stars, it was absurd to believe she could have ever been happy again with her feet on the ground.

But this wasn't about Yamcha, and this wasn't about love. This was about the simple desire to touch him, just once, without him flinching away.

She tucked that impossible dream between her teeth and smiled her way through dinner. What she said was of little consequence to her or to Vegeta, but she kept up a steady stream of one-sided conversation throughout their meal. The tide of speech dried up somewhere on the drive home, but neither of them truly noticed. There were only a few words she had left, and it took the long walk upstairs to find them at last.

"Vegeta." She held him with her voice alone as she paused at her bedroom. "Thank you. You saved my life." One hand came to rest lightly against the center of his chest, and she leaned in to skim a quick kiss against his cheek.

This latest assault in the bizarre form of physiological warfare she had been conducting over the last few days was unprecedented. He couldn't remember ever hearing those exact words in that exact order. They sank into his skin like hooks and _pulled_. She still smelled of smoke and ash as she brushed close, and the memory of last time she had been pressed against him—and wearing considerably less—reopened like a wound. When he turned his head just a fraction so his lips met hers, it was the smallest defeat of his life.

Because he could obliterate her casually, his arms came up to hold her loosely. Because he could vaporize her carelessly, he kissed her with a restraint that he would not have thought himself capable of. And after the space of a breath had passed, he released her.

Stepping back, she bounced once on the balls of her feet as she pressed her lips together thoughtfully. "Mmm, not bad," she pronounced as a playful gleam lit her gaze, "but you can do better."

He had never backed down from a challenge.

Sometime later her head and shoulders hit the wall a little too forcefully. She gave a yelp and punched him in the shoulder. It wasn't so much a complaint as a friendly reminder that she was human, and therefore _breakable_. In fact, complaining was the farthest thing from her mind. The ache from earlier was no bigger than before, but it had developed all the gravity of a black hole. She was falling in, accelerating and tearing into the most exquisite pieces, until her last atom split in a shattering explosion, until the only thing holding her together at all were his hands.

And he was not gentle and he was not kind, but neither was she.

—

He tracked mud across her kitchen floor, and for a long minute she stared at it, her lips compressing into a thin line. Then she looked up, taking in the clump of flowers in shades of buttery yellow and burning orange clutched in one hopeful fist, the dirty weave of their roots hanging down below his grip.

There was a sheepish expression on his face as he raised the other hand to cup the back of his neck. "Chi-Chi, you know I—"

"Stop." For once a dutiful husband, Goku closed his mouth, and she made an impatient gesture. "Give me those."

Turning away from him, she set the flowers on the counter. She selected an appropriately sharp and sinister-looking knife and began trimming the stems. While the activity did give her an outlet for some lingering violent inclinations, it was intended more to provide her husband a sobering opportunity for self-reflection than it was for her to control her emotions.

This misunderstanding would unravel itself like all the rest. She had loved him since she was a child, since before she realized how big loving someone could be, and it was far too late to give that up now. He was imprinted on her skin, he was buried in her bones, he was written on her soul, and staying angry with him was like holding a grudge against herself. Casting him off was worse than amputating a limb. But there was no sense in letting him see that.

She selected a vase and prolonged his unease a little longer as she meticulously arranged the cut flowers to her liking. When she was satisfied, she set them on table and stepped back so that she and Goku stood side by side, allowing them both a moment to appreciate her artistry. Like always, she took the things he gave her, raw and untamed, and transformed them into something beautiful.

She turned into him after an appropriate amount of time, burying her face in his shoulder, and was surprised to feel the material beneath her cheek become a little damp after a few seconds. "Oh, Goku," she whispered, "all I really wanted was your time."

"You've got it." He brought up one arm to draw her closer. With the other, he made frantic shooing gestures at the two expectant faces peering through the window, waiting to see if their banishment had been lifted.

Gohan was faster on the uptake than Piccolo, and he tugged impatiently on the Namekian's hand. Suddenly, a whole day in the company of his mentor had opened up before him. As he led his perplexed friend away, an endless series of possibilities danced before his eyes, stretching out under the eternally blue skies of childhood with a promise that no android could destroy.

—

Bulma stretched and rolled into cool sheets. She cracked open one eye and rapidly assimilated several details. Enlightened but not alarmed, she felt no particular sense of urgency and closed her eyes again. She twisted and burrowed, rested again for an indeterminate amount of time, then stretched once more. Slowly, she sat up, at last ready to take a more conscientious approach to her situation.

Clothes were a must. She went hunting for the articles she had discarded so haphazardly the night before. _Pants, bra, shoe, shirt, underwear, other shoe, sock…_

Twenty minutes later, she perched on the edge of her bed, only half-dressed, with a single sock balled in one hand. She stared at the lonely piece of cloth whose mate she had been unable to locate despite an exhaustive search, feeling a confused sense of dread pressing on her chest. There was something she was missing here, greater than just a sock. Something lost to the shadows of memory. Something small which had suddenly become so vitally important.

She threw the sock aside in frustration and pulled on the rest of her clothes in a hurry. She decided while she wrestled with her top to scrap her initial plans for strutting around and generally lording things over Vegeta. Something about that solitary sock had awakened a new purpose in her. Something was amiss in the universe, and she had to set it to rights as soon as possible. Whatever _it_ was.

She found him exactly where she knew he would be, exactly where he shouldn't be the morning after some lunatic tried to burn down her house. She confidently deactivated the gravity chamber from the outside and stepped through the door, before realizing her fatal error. She had forgotten about the battle bots.

She screeched and dove to avoid the friendly fire, ending in an inelegant little summersault. There was an explosion and a metallic crunch as the bot hit the ground a moment later.

"You will need to repair that," Vegeta informed her cooly, his face impassive.

"Hey." She smiled up at him cheerfully from her ungraceful sprawl on the ground, as if this had been her intention all along. "We need to talk. Not about last night," she amended quickly as she saw the first sign of alarm reflected in his eyes, "because that would be awkward and weird. But we're adults, so we're going to talk about tonight, and the next night, and maybe even the night after that."

She propped herself up on an elbow, making a brief catalogue of her bruises. "I'm sure by now you've already completed some pretty complicated mental gymnastics, and you're thinking that somehow I trapped you or tricked you for some nefarious purpose. There's not much I can do to defend myself against something like that, but I would just like to say that I don't have an endgame. In fact, I have no idea what is going on here.

"All I do know is that now that the door's open, I'm going to keep it that way. No plots, no pretense. You can come or you can go, and it will not break me. But I think, if you stayed, it might make me happy. So," she finished lamely and shrugged her shoulders eloquently. Then, she got up and left, not waiting for an answer and not looking back.

She did not think about him the rest of the day. Her hours were full enough under normal circumstances just keeping the family business afloat, but today she also had to squeeze in calls to contractors and a rather apologetic conversation with her parents. Between the two, she felt harried and loved and exhausted by the time she crawled into bed that night. That she did so alone was no great surprise, and she fell asleep effortlessly.

When the other side of her mattress dipped sometime past midnight, she was even less surprised. She curved into the heat of his body as he slipped between her sheets, and his hands gravitated instantly towards her skin, making the kinds of demands his mouth never would. She reached back for him automatically, holding him as close as a secret. And when he finally said her name, there was no one around to hear but her.


End file.
